


Three Little Words

by Korpuskat



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Phantom - Susan Kay
Genre: But with a happy ending, F/M, Soulmate AU, angsty, the one where you have your lovers writing on your body
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-20
Updated: 2015-10-20
Packaged: 2018-04-27 06:09:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5036839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Korpuskat/pseuds/Korpuskat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The people who love you leaves marks on you: the first words they speak to you. They're worn like engagement rings and shared scarves: little accessories to flaunt their love to all the world.</p><p> Erik has no marks at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three Little Words

Erik knew all his life his mother was right. No one would ever love him. Not because of his face or his past, but because fate itself had ordained it.

The world had a beautiful little way to arranging people’s love lives: For every person who loves you romantically you have a mark upon your skin. The first words they will speak to you. These marks were always prominently displayed, brandishing a couple’s inevitable love.

Of course, they also displayed if you would be loved by more than one person. Beautiful people- like his mother- were covered in such writing. Sometimes the writing would be darker or larger in proportion to their love (these words’ owners typically became your spouse if you were lucky). Charles’ brief introduction to Madeleine over her chest was the darkest mark he’d seen on anyone.

The Romani people kept their distance when they realized he had no marks. Never had they met someone without a single word on their skin. This had helped his reputation as the devil’s apprentice, that part of his curse was to go without love- unable to give or receive such a precious commodity. After all what would an undead sorcerer need of love?

All this gave him just one more reason to cover his deathly skin from such hateful people. So when he saw the opportunity to embrace a new master and leave the Romani encampment with bloodstained hands he took it. He was already going to live a loveless life. It wasn’t as though he could condemn himself more than that.

And then came Giovanni and Luciana. Giovanni (“ _Signor, your hat?_ ” on his inner wrist) had never invaded his much-needed privacy, had never asked about why he covered every inch of his skin, did not question why Erik had made a tiny request one evening to see his markings and trace the lightly raised skin. If he had pieced together how hideous he was under this mask he could certainly also piece together that he had no writing on his skin.

When Luciana came she was more than enthralled as soon as the words left his mouth in something less than a greeting: “ _Mademoiselle, I must ask you to pardon my intrusion upon a private moment…_ ” And in that moment Giovanni grew quiet. Luciana’s body was covered in writing- she was loved by nearly any man who saw her. She kept a record of exactly how each person greeted her, made sure to check off every last marking.

He was the last one. His single sentence ran from the heel of her palm to the tip of her middle finger. He took his leave to the basement.

Luciana became agitated in the following weeks. She had undeniable proof he loved her, and she was certain she loved him, so why didn’t he just court her already? Her father tried to console her, tried to explain that perhaps the timing was not correct just yet. Giovanni knew from his daughter’s behavior her words would not be imprinted on his skin: she hardly knew a thing about the boy who truly lived in their basement; she loved the idea of him and that he was in love with her.

He, on the other hand, drew more and more away from either of them. He was in love with his teacher’s daughter, though the inverse was not true. He checked himself several times. Daring to carefully use mirrors to check places he could reach on his own. But there was nothing. No mark of any kind that he could attempt to lie and tell himself it was writing-- even faintly, or small. Just the ghost of an imprint was all he needed. And yet, none materialized.

This only provoked Luciana more, determined that she must love him and that he was hiding it from her. It had ended just as he’d suspected it would. She demanded that her love for him must be so disgustingly brazen across his face, that’s why he wore a mask. And when Giovanni also pushed, he did as asked.

Instead of her own declaration of love was his own awful countenance.

And then, she fell.

He wandered, after that. Never taking a second glance at a woman. Obviously she had never truly loved him. But he and his awful, broken heart had loved her- he had killed her. In his mind these two points connected perfectly. His love, his presence was only to be death to the people near him, even when he thought he had given up that dark art.

So why not embrace it? The thought of love slipped far from his mind- learning anything, everything that caught his interest. Local architecture, language, herbal remedies. In India he learned how to throw a thin rope to snap a man’s neck (or strangle them, if that failed). Under the Ottomans he watched how heat altered a man’s perceptions.

In Persia his lack of markings was of little notice. Love was farther from his mind than ever; lust, drugs, and death controlled nearly any waking thought.

He found solace in Nadir (“ _It’s the dead of night, why are the police here…?_ ” written on the side of his neck) and his child. In a sickly way, they had both noted Reza had no writing. If that hadn’t secure Nadir’s doubts of the Persian physicians’ diagnosis of growth pains, there was nothing else to be done. Without something as severe as Erik’s face, there was surely only one reason why he would not have any lovers’ words on his skin.

Reza never questioned why he himself had no writing, perhaps not realizing what it meant for his future. Erik took many vacations to see Reza; Nadir knew instinctively it was both Erik’s fondness to protect the truly helpless (the images of the half-blind cat crawling into his lap resurfaced from time to time) and Erik finding confidence that, perhaps, his lack of romantic love was not as awful as it seemed to be.

In France things slowed considerably. He wrote his opera on love, lust, seduction, and deception but what folly. He was only skilled in one of those arts, how was he to accurately portray them? Don Juan proved difficult, staggering away at time thinking. Perhaps, if the world were truly lucky, his _magnum opus_ would never be finished.

And then came Christine. From the moment he heard her sing he knew his words were imprinted on her skin. Against any better knowledge he nearly threw himself from the box’s ledge to stare at her. There! On her hands were two matching sets of words. Unlike Luciana she seemed to only have those two markings. Was that it? Had she loved before and now he was to come and slay her with his bestial affection?

He stumbled half-blindly to his home once more. He checked again and again. When he saw none he alternated screaming and sobbing in anguish. He would condemn her to her death! There was no other way, that was all his love was capable of doing!

The guilt was bitter- he would remind himself of the inevitable outcome anytime the most minor thoughts of confronting her surfaced. What if he never did? No, the marks were there. It was only a matter of time. Or, perhaps, she would simply overhear him talking- never interact with him directly! Yes, that was possible…

He moved her to the secluded, out-of-use dressing room not to be closer to her-- no, no that was a silly idea. He needed to see what her markings were. He had to. He was deluding himself; he didn’t really love her- no, this was a perverted old man’s lust that played at being love.

But she never stood by the mirror at quite the correct angle to read her hands. Before he could try to coerce her into the correct position, the fateful night came. She began to sob and he called to her through song in a language she did not know. When she approached the mirror he could read the Romani words of the first verse of the song he just finished.

“Angel of Music…”

But those words did not exist on his skin. Perhaps, they existed on the real Angel of Music’s skin. That was good enough. It had to be good enough.

 

The other set of words belonged to her precious childhood romance. “ _Your scarf!_ ” on her right hand, in French. A lullabye, on her left, in Romani. It was only fitting his love was on the left hand; the _sinister_.

In the stressful months that followed, her caresses almost made him believe she could love him. When she chose to stay -and actually stayed, despite his own pleading- he believed it a little more.

It was comforting, at least, to know his mark was larger and bolder than the Vicomte's. Perhaps that was why she stayed.

She would say it to him sometimes, whispered in the quiet moments or shouted if they were fighting. What could he do but give her a look of awful pity? Even she had begun to believe she loved him or she certainly _acted_ like she did. Even if there was no love behind her kisses and touches he could not turn them away; it was not as though any other woman was willing to give them to him so freely. And she gave them freely, more physical touch than he’d had in his previous five decades. So much so that more than once he had to escape to his room and to the familiar comfort of solitude.

Now was not one of those times. He laid in her arms now, weary from another coughing fit. There was little to do besides wait them out and afterwards he would become awfully tired. They were- if Erik had the mind to blush- in her bed as she had refused to lay with him in a coffin. It was… nice. For as fake as it was, it was nice.

A residual spasm in his chest made him shudder and croak and give a low moan. He curled around her, tangling his long limbs over her tiny body. Her hands immediately found their way to his head, cradling him to her. Her thumb stroked at his cheek while cupping his jaw while the other rubbed soothingly on his upper back and neck.

He felt her shift, leaning forward to press a kiss to his hair. Her sharp gasp made dread spread through his chest once more-- having nothing to do with the physical affliction. Had she finally broke her trance and realized she was consoling a corpse?

“ _Erik!_ ” She exclaimed. He lifted his head to her. He had expected hatred and shock, but her eyes were brimmed with tears- her grin so wide he thought she might break her cheeks. “Erik, feel!”

She took one of his bony, pale hands and lead it up to his own scalp, pressing them. At first he felt only the texture of his own dark hair, but as he probed for whatever had his Christine in a fuss he realized what he was feeling. He froze and then all at once reanimated. Clamoring over her and nearly falling onto the floor he knocked over the chair, but pulled himself to her vanity. The angle was nearly impossible but he pulled and sorted through his thinning hair with a fury.

About an inch past his hairline, stretching from his right temple to the center of his forehead were three words in letters so dark and think they blended easily with this hair. He sobbed then and stared at Christine with wonder she’d never seen in him before. He fell to the floor again as she held him, brushing at his hair, kissing his face, and whispering to him those same three words:

“ _Angel of Music,_ ”


End file.
